


Touch Your Wood: Kinkmeme Shorts

by Dame_Syrup (mary_pseud)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Caning, Cooking, F/M, Femdom, Kink Meme, M/M, Rubber, Size Kink, Sounding, Spanking, Strawberry Jam, Temperature Play, Wound Play, canning, gigantism, prehistoric lust, touchyourwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_pseud/pseuds/Dame_Syrup
Summary: A collection of stories originally written for the Torchwood anon kink meme.  All should be considered various flavours of Adult; see the tags for specific kinks.





	1. Strawberries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Tosh is a domme and Jack (or Martha) is (one of) her subs. As hardcore as you like! 'cause I like it that way too! Canning* is especially welcome.
> 
> * typo was present in the original prompt, and I ran with it!

It began in the Hub, of course. It was the sort of thing that was best started and incubated underground, in the darkness.  
  
Jack had been working in the conference room, papers from half a dozen cases strewn around him. Ianto had left (the coffee at Jack's elbow a warm parting gift) and Owen was off doing whatever he did away from here. Tosh was at her station, doing something to the computer.  
  
She'd come to tell him that she was leaving, and found him slumped in his chair, staring down intensely at the papers in front of him. There was a pattern here, between the weird and the wild and the grotty, bloody messes left behind, the shaken fragments of human bodies, but he couldn't see it. And if he didn't see it, more people would die.  
  
He'd muttered this under his breath to Tosh, and heard her soft footsteps come up behind his chair.  
  
Her hand was pressed gently to the back of his head. Gently, but irresistibly; he felt himself melt at that touch, the firm squeezing of her fingers against his scalp. He relished the tiny painful stings of her nails against his skin, as with inexorable force she pressed his head forward.  
  
His lips touched cold polished wood, in a parody of a kiss, and he closed his eyes, suddenly weightless.  
  
Then she removed her hand, and turned to go. He snapped to his feet, not wanting this to end here.  
  
"Wait, I want-"  
  
She turned, and her eyes were suddenly black steel.  
  
"You want?" In those two words was scorn and fury and icy self-control, frightening force.  
  
"I — ask — to kiss you."  
  
He smiled, letting all his charm out at once, watching it roll over her and around her and leave her unmoved.  
  
But she came back. She stood close to him, very close, and said in a voice with the sound of a tiger's growl, "You ask to kiss — who?"  
  
He lowered his face to her, and then lower; he sank to his knees, taking her hand in both of his as though it was a gem, a treasure, something precious to be cherished and loved.  
  
"I ask to kiss you — Mistress."  
  
He looked up at her, and with the tiniest nod of her head she gave permission. He did not trespass on that permission; he kissed her hand, softly, letting her feel the softness and weight of his lips.

* * *

That was how it began between them. She would set him some minor task; he would succeed and win her favour, or fail and suffer punishment. The dark tunnels of the lower Hub rang to the sounds of her shouts as she climaxed on his tongue, or his shouts as she ran the violet wand up his side and over the curve of his chest. Risking exposure was part of the thrill for him, and her hints of what she would do to him if they were truly alone were even more exciting.  
  
He often thought that was madness, plain and simple. If there was anyone who he shouldn't trust himself to — but then he dropped that thought. She trusted him with her life, over and over again. He'd worked to earn that trust, no matter the shattering horror that had brought them into each others' orbits. He wanted to trust her in turn. He wanted to give up all cares, all the terrible burning weight of years and lives and responsibility, and just be and feel and obey her touch, her gaze, her words.  
  
He kept pushing for more, demanding harder punishment, more difficult tasks, and instead she diverted him, dismissed him: or worse yet ignored him.  
  
One morning, after he was just about ready to write the whole affair off as bad love gone dry, she dropped a shopping list on his desk.  
  
"Get these," she said. "Be at my flat one hour after I leave here. And be ready to stay until I dismiss you."  
  
He glanced up at her and then down at the desk, letting his neck arch just a little. In his heart he felt something go warm.  
  
"Thank you," he said, too softly for anyone but her to hear.  
  
The shopping was easy enough, although he had to hunt to find the jam sugar. He was at her door precisely on time, eyes wide and hopes high — and not just his hopes.  
  
Tosh opened the door and he swallowed. She was wearing a severe black apron, which covered her from throat to knees, but it was rubber. Black rubber that was just a little translucent, so he could catch a glimpse of nipples and navel and pubic hair through the material.  
  
"Come in," she said. "Close the door tight."  
  
She turned, and he followed her as though drawn by a string: she was wearing nothing under the apron but high heels, and her tight arse rolled in a bewitching undulation as she moved towards the kitchen. Just in time, he remembered to close the door. He had to force it over the thick carpeting to do this, and he paused for a moment, rubbing the carpet with his foot. It was very thick carpeting, backed with rubber from the feel of it. When he looked at the textured wallpaper and the way it bowed at the corners of the entrance it was clear it was soundproofing as well as decorative. As he went to the kitchen (bright lights, odd slatted furniture, and a table gleaming with ceramic bowls and steel utensils), he passed a shuttered window, and the shutters were soundproofed as well.  
  
I could scream my head off in here, and nobody would hear, Jack thought with a jolt of excitement. It was another layer to this seduction, to this surrender. He did so love letting himself go.  
  
"First." Tosh sat down, straight backed, and stared up at Jack. "We haven't discussed a safe word."  
  
"Will we need one?" he said, archly.  
  
"We will." Her voice brooked no disagreement. "Perhaps you've never heard of the couple who played without a safe word, until he got appendicitis in the middle of a scene and couldn't say what was wrong. So if I gag you, which I might; your mouth," she stared at it intently, "is pretty — yes, if you're gagged, three grunts is the safe word. And if you're ungagged, your safe word will be-?"  
  
She waited, offering him the choice.  
  
"Poodle," he finally decided.  
  
"Very good, Jack. " she said. "Now be a good boy and take off your clothes."  
  
He made a striptease of it, peeling off his braces, undoing his zipper with slow ease, but noticed that she wasn't paying attention; instead she had taken the strawberries he had bought, put them into a white enamelled colander, and was rinsing them off in the sink. He kept on stripping with erotic languor anyway, amused at the show she was missing, while admiring her taut calves.  
  
"Now. Sit down and hull these strawberries. Quickly, quickly!" She took a slim bamboo cane and tapped him on the hip, not hard but with neat precision, letting him feel the weight and the knuckles of it without stinging him with the tip.  
  
And he did try. He picked up the huller, like a giant set of tweezers. Carefully, he pulled off the green leaf puff from the top of the tiny wild strawberry and put it in the ceramic bowl that she indicated. He did the next one, and the next one, imagining the red strawberry juice running down his fingers, imagining his wet fingers sliding under the apron, cupping her-  
  
"Don't waste any," the cane tapped him hard on the bicep. "And faster."  
  
He went faster. He fell into a rhythm of choosing a strawberry, twisting off the hull, dropping, twisting and dropping, twisting and-  
  
"Stop!"  
  
Tosh's hand flashed out and took the hulled strawberry from his fingers. Turning it, she revealed the ripe patch of rot that he had failed to notice.  
  
"Jack, I'm disappointed in you." Her eyes were dark and sad as she looked at him. "Do you really want me eating such filth? And getting sick?"  
  
Jack let the shame wash over him, the sure knowledge of his failure. It was so wonderful to do this, to fail and know that he would be the only one to suffer. "No, Mistress."  
  
Then he watched, eyes wide, as she picked up the knob of butter than had been softening in a bowl. Holding it delicately between two fingers, she lowered it to her lap. She was seated beside and parallel to the table, so Jack could see her rub the butter into the rubber apron, leaving it slick and shiny.  
  
"Hands behind your head. Stand up."  
  
He stood as gracefully as he could, showing his body, rippling stomach and strong arms and his distinctly aroused cock. She seemed to pay this no attention.  
  
"Over my lap, and don't come or I'll cane you raw," she said.  
  
He knelt at her side, then rose and placed himself over her lap. He was concentrating on this so hard, on moving without his arms and not letting his weight fall onto her thighs from an angle, that it was a moment before he looked down and saw his own face.  
  
There was a mirror under Tosh's chair, and in it he could see that several of the slats had been removed. Tosh's bare thighs were visible, the dark thatch of her pubic hair, and between them the shine of her leather apron; even the shape of Jack's now-hard cock as she reached under him and slid it between her thighs. It bulged deliciously there, wrapped in black rubber.  
  
"Count," she ordered, and smacked his arse with a firm hand.  
  
"One." The first hard spank left a blazing patch of heat on his skin. He could see his own face redden, the hair hanging wild around it making him look more lost and wild than ever, and could feel his bound cock throb against the greased rubber.  
  
"Two." Her hand landed right where the first blow had, and he felt the heat expanding. His cock seemed to be swelling, under the touch of the slippery rubber.  
  
"Three!" He yelped. That third smack was with something flat and cold — a spatula? How had she picked it up so fast? And was that a hint of wetness between her thighs now?  
  
"Four" her hand, "Five" his bottom was getting hotter, "Six" she moved to the other cheek, her palm hot and sweating against his skin, "Seven" the spatula again, his face was growing redder "Eight" her hand back on the first spot, which was really starting to sting, "Nine" and her hand was moving faster, "Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, four-five, stop, please! I can't keep up!"  
  
She ignored his gasps, slapping away at his bottom for another good round of humiliating, wonderful pain. He stared into his own anguished eyes, upside-down, and revelled in his submission. He gritted his teeth and let little screams out at the appropriate moments, and fought not to come. That fight, he won.  
  
Then she ran one finger from the base of his skull to the tip of his spine, and he melted.  
  
"Back to the strawberries."  
  
"Yes, Mistress," he said, scrambling upright.  
  
He worked hard and fast, quickly spinning each fruit between his fingers to see that it was good enough for his Mistress' wishes. But she kept demanding that he go faster and faster yet. His fingers were cramping, his forearms were sore from the tiny, precise repetitive motions, his bare arse sizzled against the cold wooden slatted seat, and inevitably he slipped and crushed one of the tiny fruits outright.  
  
He froze, not daring to look up at Tosh. She sighed, sadly, as she rose to stand beside him. Her hand on the side of his face drew him against her stomach; he could feel warm rubber against his cheek and ear. He watched as her hand went to the table and picked up a small, sharp paring knife.  
  
"Jack," she stroked his cheek with the blade slowly, letting the cold metal slowly grow warm, "I'm not asking anything too difficult of you, am I? Just a little kitchen duty. Women's work, as they say. Is that so hard?"  
  
She pinked him with the knife tip behind the ear, and he winced as he felt the sting of the blade.  
  
"I'm trying, Mistress," he said, wondering if the wetness on his neck was sweat or blood. "I want to please you-"  
  
"And I want you to please me, Jack, very much." Another pink; she was using just the tip, straight through the skin, not cutting. Just piercing the skin and away. He was glad she was working on his scalp, where people wouldn't see the marks, and dreaded that she might start on something else. He kept his safe word close, ready. Just in case.  
  
"And you have done so well, so far." The knife again, and the wetness on his neck was certainly blood. "It's just a little bit longer, and we can go to the next step. Won't that be exciting?"  
  
She raised his head up with her hand under his chin, and he stared up at her in awe. She was so strong like this, so sure, so totally in control.  
  
"Yes, Mistress," he said. And the side of his head exploded into stinging pain, as his nose detected the smell of lemon. With absolute concentration he did not move or cry out; he just kept staring at her.  
  
"Very good," she said, putting down the knife and the cut lemon — she must have cut it with one hand, so fast that he hadn't noticed. "Now finish."  
  
His arms had rested while she teased him, and he finished the rest of the fruit in short order. He held out the full bowl with both hands for her inspection.  
  
Without speaking, she wrung out the lemons over the bowl, and made Jack suck the leftover juice from her fingers, sourness exploding against the roof of his mouth. The jam sugar was carefully sprinkled over the top with a large spoon, and Tosh sprinkled a few grains on her arm and let Jack lick them off. Then she raised the apron, sprinkled a few grains in her lap, and ordered Jack to retrieve the sugar with his tongue — without touching her skin.  
  
This was more difficult, especially with his hands behind his back, but using just the tip of his tongue he carefully picked through her pubic hair and got every grain. The sugar was even sweeter after the lemon juice. He could see and smell how excited he had made her, and he ached, all over, to taste and feel and be a part of her pleasure.  
  
He smiled up at her, on his knees between her spread legs, and she smiled back, looking at her wonderful toy.  
  
She ordered, "Now, come with me."  
  
Before Jack knew it, he was bound face-up to a long low coffee table that Tosh had placed beside her stove. The table was the same style of slatted furniture as the chairs, and Tosh had removed enough slats that Jack could feel that his arse and back were bare and exposed. He strained against the broad leather cuffs, making the muscles pop on his chest and arms, and wished that Tosh would notice.  
  
But she seemed oblivious. Serene in her rubber apron, she poured the strawberries into a heavy pan and started warming them, stirring. She'd brought the knob of butter with her, and this time she slicked it over her palm before rubbing the head of Jack's cock, slowly, very slowly. He squirmed, helpless, panting hard.  
  
"This isn't quite boiling yet. Let me see..." She picked up a metal thermometer, long and thin and encased in a clear silicone sheath, and took the temperature of the fruit mix. "Not yet, but soon."  
  
Then she spun and sank to her knees, a gesture not of submission but of attack: bringing her eyes and hands and rubber-clad breasts all to bear on Jack.  
  
"And how about you?" She rubbed against him, letting the sweat lubricate them, and watched his skin flush. "Are you ready to boil?"  
  
She picked up the long, slim thermometer with its gently rounded tip and tiny dial, pulled it from its sheath as though drawing a sword, and brought it to Jack's tip. She carefully rubbed in the tiny slit in the head of his cock, and watched in approval as clear liquid welled up around it. Slowly, carefully, holding him rigid with her hand (not that she really needed to, he was rather rigid already) she worked the tip of the thermometer inside his cock. Jack shivered at the touch of the hot metal inside him, prying into him, and let his pants turn into screams again.  
  
After a long endless time, she withdrew her tool from him. She checked the dial, smiled, and said, "You're pretty close to boiling, I think."  
  
Then she rose and went back to stirring her strawberries, while Jack shuddered at what she might do next. She let a few hot droplets of the strawberry syrup drip from her spoon onto the hollow of his throat, and licked it off, seeing the tiny red patch the heat left behind. He lay with his eyes half-closed, remembering the feel of her tongue and the smell of her hair.  
  
Then she picked up a mechanical timer with one hand, and her cruel bamboo cane with the other.  
  
"Four minutes," she said, turning the dial and putting it down. "Let's see how red I can stripe you in four minutes."  
  
This time he did scream. He screamed at the first blow of the cane, laying a red print across his chest from nipple to nipple; he screamed at the next blow and the next, striping up and down his rib cage, and only in passing appreciated the hand she put to his throat, to divert any blows that might land there or on his face. She struck hard and neat, precise as a machine, and when she was done with his ribs she went down to his lower thighs and started working upwards.  
  
Jack was in a frenzy, writhing and moaning shamelessly, as her blows rained down on his thighs, slowly creeping upwards towards his genitals. Her blows rose higher, higher, he craned his neck and saw the bamboo whipping down, slapping against his skin just below his testicles again and again, they drew tight and she followed, close enough to pull hairs, close enough to-  
  
The timer went off, and Tosh rose, putting the cane aside.  
  
"Saved by the bell," she winked, and Jack slumped in relief. He perked up as she unbuckled him and had him rise and roll and lie on the table face-down. The cuffs went around ankles and wrists again, and he stared into another mirror, seeing how his chest was furrowed with perfectly aligned red welts, and his thighs as well. His cock hung free, with a slat just above and below it, and he imagined her reaching under and squeezing him, rubbing his butter-slick cock, imagined watching himself come.  
  
A weight descended on his back and he screamed. Because it was cold iron, crushing and freezing him, searing his skin, stabbing icy fingers into his heart. It hit him like a sledgehammer, and he swore he could feel his heart falter. He yanked his head around, screaming and bucking, trying to shake the thing loose or see what it had done, and only stopped when Tosh put her hand on the back of his head.  
  
"Safe word?" she asked.  
  
"What is that?" He could only imagine that she'd poured liquid nitrogen on him, or something. If she had he was stopping this right now, but he couldn't believe it of Tosh. He was certain that paring knife and thermometer had been surgically sterile before she used them on him, and he couldn't imagine her maiming him.  
  
"A plate."  
  
"A — a plate?" he squeaked.  
  
"Yes, I've been keeping it in the freezer for you."  
  
Jack pressed his forehead to the slat and laughed. A plate, a cold plate, and he'd thought his spine was being ripped out. There was the sound of her dribbling something on the plate, and fiddling with it.  
  
"Oh, very good. That reminds me, I have to start the water boiling," and she adjusted something on the stove. Jack didn't try to look up and see; instead he lay limp and yet stiff, full of happiness and arousal, feeling safe and warm and alive, bound and whipped and cut as he was.  
  
"This has to cool," she finally decided, and there was a clanking sound as she moved the heavy pot aside. "Now I need to get these ready, and I'll need a little assistance from you. Don't worry, you won't need your hands."  
  
He flinched as something hot was pressed to one of his arse cheeks. It felt like a hot ring, maybe the size of his palm, but it left behind a strange drawing sensation. The only thing he could relate it to was pulling the skin with a pinch — but that wasn't it. There was just the hot circle — two hot circles now, as she placed something else on his other cheek — and the strange eerie pull.  
  
Whatever it was, it was silent; the only sound was pops and creaks from the stove, the simmering of boiling water, and the crisp clicking of Toshiko's heels as she placed more of the things on his back. He could feel his skin drawn tight now between — six? Eight? of the circles, they were all up and down his back, sucking at him like hungry but passionless mouths.  
  
Tosh leaned over him, her hand sheathed in a silicone mitt, and he saw that she was holding a small jam jar in her hand, wet and steaming. Smiling, she pressed it to his chest, surrounding his nipple, and he twisted his head and stared. As the air in the jar cooled, it contracted, drawing up his skin in a flushed red arch, with little pinpricks of blood starting to gleam from Tosh's lash marks.  
  
She brought another jar to him, and another, and another; they hung from his belly and chest like gleaming weights. He was being drawn away, weighted with the heavy glass, all his body hanging suspended under the cool gaze of his Mistress. The solid palpable weight of them, her little sounds of delight as she managed to attach one more to him, were nirvana. His much-ignored cock had never been harder; he thought, and he ached to slide himself into her.  
  
He groaned aloud when she rose and moved to the stove; there were wet sliding sounds, and then she returned to put her hands on him, pulling off the jars on his back, twisting the ones free from his chest; the buckles were undone and he looked down for an instant, to see his chest marked with red circles filled with flushed weals like ancient photographs of Mars.  
  
Then there was only Tosh, guiding him over onto his back (the cool linoleum was a blessing on his hot flesh) and grabbing him, sliding his erection against her wet skin, moaning, sweat running down her face and dripping onto the apron she had casually hiked up around her hips. He gingerly tentatively put his hands on her hips as though to steady her, and she did not order him away. Gently, delicately, he encouraged her downwards, letting the head of his cock slip inside her scalding heat.  
  
"Harder," she growled, her hands on his shoulders, nails and eyes equally sharp, and he thrust, gently and then harder, harder, feeling her thighs wet against his sides, her flesh twisting and boiling around him, and then there was nothing but his hands pulling her down, down onto his cock, over and over and over again, until she shouted out her pleasure and he roared his own in answer.  
  
She collapsed against his chest, and he ran his hands up and down her back, savouring the soft wet flesh. So soft, so small and yet so perfectly in control. How far she'd come, in the time he had known her: and how far she would bring him, in the time to come, he wondered.  
  
Finally she rose from him. She pressed her fingers to his throat and whispered, "I release you. Leave," and he rose and found his clothes and left, all without a word. Somehow their scenes grew flat in the mind if they talked about them too much; they both preferred to have passion burst between them like a flower and then fade away, instead of being preserved as a brittle reminder of its former glory.

* * *

  
Tosh changed into a clean new apron; this one was red, sheerer than the other. Instead of a single tie across the back it laced up like a corset, cupping her breasts like friendly hands. She smiled at her reflection in her mirror, and again at the knock at her door.  
  
When she opened it, Martha Jones was standing there, looking serious but shifting her feet in a way that Tosh recognised as her being very, very horny.  
  
"I — I got the flour," Martha said, hefting the bag she held.  
  
"Good. Then come in and we'll start baking. Nothing goes with fresh strawberry jam like fresh, warm bread."

 

 

  
A/N: The jam should technically settle overnight before being boiled, but Tosh was in a hurry.


	2. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jack/male character of your choice {Ianto}; Jack's a size queen

"Jack," Ianto said, his voice steady, not betraying his intense desire to either laugh or scream, "do you have any idea how many laws of physics you're violating right now?"

"Can't say that I do," Jack said, beaming up at Ianto. He looked well, smile bright, dressed in his greatcoat with his hand to his ear.

Well enough, considering that he was about six centimetres tall.

Ianto had been looking for Jack this evening, and had finally given up and called his cell. When Jack answered and told him to "look by the coral," Ianto had been puzzled, but had obeyed. And – here was Jack.

'What are we going to do?" Ianto said, horrified.

Jack smiled up at him, teeth as tiny as the heads of pins. "It's a Nuymm inverter, and don't worry, it wears off."

Ianto slumped with relief, and then straightened with indignation, stepping closer to the desk. "And how can your cell work, Jack, it's not the size of my thumbnail! Surely the circuits-"

"Easy, Ianto, easy! I'm using my wrist strap," he said. It was very disorienting, looking down at the tiny Jack and hearing his voice talking perfectly normally in Ianto's ear. "By the way," Jack continued, "your flies are open."

And with no more than that, Jack stepped out over empty space and planted his toe into the metal tip of Ianto's zipper (at his size it was almost a stirrup) and threw himself into Ianto's trousers.

"Jack. JACK!" Ianto had protectively hunched over and then froze, convinced that if he moved or even took a breath, he'd crush his employer into paste. And how to explain that to the team, not to mention his dry-cleaner.

"Have I ever told you how wonderful you smell, Ianto? All over?" A deep sniffing sound, and the small shape clinging to Ianto's underwear seemed to shift its grip. "And I gotta say, you smell extra good up close and personal. Why don't you take a seat while I explore a little?"

Gingerly, carefully, Ianto shuffled to Jack's chair and sat down, turning it away from the Hub. Before he dared lean back, he undid his belt and trouser button, peeling open his clothes with one hand.

He revealed Jack, kneeling with his knees on each side of the bulge in Ianto's briefs. His tiny hand was rubbing up and down; Ianto could just barely feel it.

Then he lay down on his belly and wriggled himself against Ianto's body, and he could definitely feel that.

"Whoa, Iantoquake!" Jack joked, grabbing on as the bulge swelled in size.

"Jack, this is – nuts!"

"No, these are nuts," Jack said, rolling over and doing a little soft-shoe footwork on them; Ianto quivered and twitched at the strange sensation. "But really, aren't we both a little overdressed?"

Jack shrugged out of his coat, and tossed it towards the floor; Ianto quickly caught it.

"No, Jack, really – I could, this is just insane!"

"Got it in one," Jack beamed. "But hey, what're the odds we'll ever get the chance to do something like this again? The inverter was almost out of power, and we have no way of recharging it."

"If you lose something, what happens?"

"What, like my shirt?" That garment then went fluttering away, the size of a tea packet. "They'll just revert later." He was down to his trousers and braces and shoes, and Ianto politely held out one fingertip to accept Jack's shoes, which he put down on the desk. He stared at them, tiny and perfect. Staring at them was better than staring at the tiny naked man currently perched in his lap.

"Your turn, Ianto," Jack said, clambering up onto a thigh the size of a small hill and sitting, drumming his heels. "I showed you mine, now-"

Carefully, Ianto removed the cell from his ear and invited Jack to stand on it; then he raised himself, the back of the chair pressing hard against his back, and peeled his trousers and pants down to mid-thigh in one quick pull. Then he sat, and returned Jack to his perch on his thigh.

"Ianto...oh Ianto...oh, you gorgeous man," Jack purred in his ear as he strolled through pubic hair as dense as brush. Ianto's erection towered over him, twice or more his height. He reached out with one hand and stroked it over Ianto's velvet skin, feeling it give slightly as he touched it. He looked down and could actually see Ianto's balls creep, the skin shivering and puckering at his touch.

"Jack," Ianto moaned, one hand on the cell and the other on his leg, clutching hard enough to whiten his fingertips.

"I just want to grab you," and Jack did. He reached out and wrapped both arms around Ianto's erection, squeezing it, feeling that wonderful soft flesh pressing against the entire front of his body from knees to face. He rubbed his cheek against him like a lonely cat, and then rubbed his groin back and forth, feeling Ianto give and then spring at his touch. He hugged harder and ground his entire body against Ianto, feeling him bulge under his grip, expanding until his fingers could barely meet.

Then he grinned and started to climb. Ianto's skin was a little damp with sweat, and the skin was loose, good for getting a grip on, so in only a few moments Jack was at the head of Ianto's cock. He stared at it, entranced. Deep purple with excitement, a drop of precome oozing from his slit. He rubbed both hands into the liquid and then slid them around on Ianto's taut skin, watching it gleam under his touch.

A moan came from his wrist strap, echoed from Ianto far overhead.

The angle wasn't right for Jack to thrust his own erection inside Ianto (besides, he was a little disturbed at the possibility of tiny Jack-sperm suddenly expanding in there, a few hours from now) so instead he held onto Ianto's foreskin and just loved him with his body, dragging himself around the head, over and over, rubbing chest and thighs and crotch against him, feeling him get wetter and harder, rising under his touch, getting wetter and-

Ianto's fingers suddenly darted out and took Jack under the armpits; just in time, as the froth of Ianto's come spattered out, running all over Jack, literally bathing him in come. It would have knocked him loose if Ianto had not caught him. "Ohhhh," he moaned, rubbing himself with both hands, letting that wonderful hot musky fluid get all over him. "Oh," he said again, and finally got the wrist strap back by his face.

"Oh," he said to Ianto, "oh, that was wonderful."

He looked up at Ianto's giant face, and tried to read his expression. His face was flushed, but was he – frowning? Why?

"Look what a mess you made of yourself," Ianto whispered. "Now I'll have to clean you up." He paused for a long moment, and somehow detected the delighted glow of Jack's expression among the thick clots of sperm.

Ianto raised Jack to his mouth, and using just the tip of his tongue, he began to lick him. Slowly, delicately, barely brushing his body with the tongue the size of a rug from Jack's point of view, he licked Jack's legs and thighs, licked his chest, and ever-so-lightly brushed the tiny bristle of his scalp with his tongue.

Jack was limp in Ianto's grasp – well, most of him was limp. One part was certainly not, and that was where Ianto's tongue went next. Stroking his belly and thighs and crotch with a single lick, and Jack moaned, loudly, so loud that Ianto could hear it even without the cell. He licked again, and again, and again. He carefully draped Jack across his palm, and rolled him over and over with his tongue, licking his back and his arse and pressing him flat against Ianto's palm, covering him entirely, front and back, in warm inviting flesh.

Then he captured Jack's wrists between two fingers. Lifting him, dangling him in the air, and then letting his feet pass between Ianto's lips. Jack slid deeper, deeper into Ianto's mouth, until he felt himself enclosed completely from the waist down. Lips compressed around his middle, and Ianto's tongue tip was pressed to Jack's groin, rippling.

Ianto sucked Jack, sucked his entire body at once, legs and groin, and Jack screamed with pleasure, screamed "Yes!" and "More!" and "Yes!" again, until he came and painted Ianto's tongue with a tiny patch of sperm.

Breathlessly, he found himself slid out of Ianto's mouth and laid on his desk. Ianto politely offered him a handkerchief (the size of a small tent) for Jack to dry himself, and then put all his clothes within reach.

As he watched Jack dress, Ianto muttered, "What are the chances we could get Tosh to recharge that inverter?"

"Pretty good," Jack said, shrugging into his coat and staring upwards. "Pretty damn good, I should think."

"Good."


	3. Pterodactyl on a Hot Tin Muff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: CyberLisa/Myfanwy: After everyone leaves in the invisible lift, fighting turns to sex.

Myfanwy turned and shrieked, wings flailing at the strange thing that had invaded her territory. Her bringers-of-food were rising away, but before they had gone, they had doused this thing with the marvellous smell that meant Food.

But as she flailed, something deeper in her mind came alight. Did she remember great males of her species, leaving her offerings of shiny-scaled fish to court her favour? Did she remember sunlight on broad leathery wings, light flashing from wet beaks, the gleam and glimmer of carefully arranged slabs of mica around a stony nest? Her nose told her Food, but her deepest instincts, those of a thousand generations of bestial flyers, told her Mate.

What had been Lisa Hallett had a brain as sliced and constrained by metal as Myfanwy was by instinct. The deepest, most primordial urges of her self had been subverted into conversion, which was to her now better than sex, better than life itself. She had loved Ianto before her semi-conversion, and now she pined to change him, to melt his flesh and bone away and tenderly decant his stripped nerves into the sweet embrace of the metal.

The rewiring of her libido ran deep; the Cybermen were keen to exploit that part of human nature that would do anything, absolutely anything, if it was linked to sex. Ianto had once left a portable coffee machine near her helpless form, and had been puzzled to return and find it disassembled; he had not seen her take the machine apart with pitiless concentration and lick it, caress it, try to fondle and seduce and merge herself with it...and fail.

Lisa was convinced that she was the most perfect of all beings, and would only become more perfect with time and further conversion. Confronted with this strange flying biped {the parts of her brain that would have recognised it as 'dinosaur' were unfortunately not consulted, because the Cybermen knew there were no dinosaurs}; this thing that was batting at her with wings and beak, she was certain that it was – was – was something alive. Something that could be seduced. Something that could be converted.

Lisa spread her arms and Myfanwy ran her beak along them in a chorus of clicks, whistling. Her metal-bound hands caressed the great crest, ran along the lightly furred neck and found sensitive hollows along the great chest muscles. Myfanwy returned the favour with her butter-soft wings, stroking Lisa's back and watching the lights of her flicker and dance in the twinkling underground glow. She stroked her from calves to shoulders, up and down, tickling along her taut thighs and round buttocks. Lisa's muscles quivered under the gentleness of that touch. Myfanwy's beak was between them now; rubbing between Lisa's bound breasts, hard against her belly, and then grinding into the metal that sheathed her groin.

Lisa moaned aloud; that metal was fused directly to her flesh, deep into the pleasure nerves of her crotch, and being touched there by that great leathery shape (so much firmer, so much thicker than Ianto's fumbling fingers) was like orgasm that never came to a peak, just rolled on and on in waves that receded and rose again, unending, eternal. Her own hands were kneading deep along Myfanwy's spine, scratching and probing, and when she reached the centre of her back and dug in, hard, with all ten fingers, Myfanwy remembered flight and wind and a screaming mate riding her, riding her in the skies, and she moaned and shuddered and was done.

Stepping back, Myfanwy preened and bobbed her head, dancing, displaying herself. Then she took wing and soared upwards, into the warmth and comfort of her nest.

Lisa's eyes followed that flight, not comprehending. Then her mind ticked over, and she dropped her gaze. The entity had not remained to be converted, but that was not important. Her current body was damaged, but she could still go on. She had to go on. For Ianto. For all of humanity, poor unconverted emotional divided weak lost humanity, she had to make herself go on.

 


End file.
